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In Memory of Pitre

THE STORY

I don't know when it began.  The only person who did, is probably no longer alive.  My first vivid memory was at age 8 1/2.  That memory tells me that was not the first time, and by a long shot it was not the last.  But I get ahead of myself.

I was born in California, and moved to England when I was 5 1/2.  By this time I was with my mom and my step-father, Mel.  I don't know when it started, but everyone always thought that I was his child. (but that is another story).  

When I was 6 or 7, I was molested by a counselor in a club.  I don't remember many of the details, and I never really pushed the issue.  My parents thought that I had forgotten the incident.  I never did.  I just did not talk about it.  (Note to parents, please talk to your child, don't push it under the carpet, even though it may be painful, it will help in the end).  I know that I was not the only one, but the first to come forward.  I remember Mel and my mother being very upset.  I talked to the police.  After some investigation, other children came forward.  He ended up in jail.  I remember he touched me in inappropriate places, I don't remember any penetration, but I remember he gave me money to buy candy, and told me that it was a secret.  

All the kids knew what was happening, they all knew what happened when you got taken to the bathroom by him.  We grouped together as to not be singled out, but it never worked. After this incident, right before we moved away from England, a family friend also violated my rights.  Yes another one.  I remember this one more clearly, it was at night, my mom was asleep, he came in and started touching me.  I had been asleep.  I never told anyone about this.  I am not sure why.   I guess I convinced myself that it was a part of a dream or something.   It did not come up until years later.   He came to visit us when I was nine.  He was sleeping in my room, while I slept on a pull out chair bed in my parents room. He decided to take up where he had left off.  He would come in to my room and shut the door when I went to go get something.  We would then pull out his penis and try to get me to suck it.  He would come up behind me and grab me and begin touching me.  If we were left in the car together he would rub his hand up and down my thigh and up my skirt or shorts.   I tried avoiding him as much as possible.    Still I did not say anything.  This went on for quite awhile as he was staying with us for a few weeks.

The last straw for me was Christmas eve.  My parents went out to get some last minute things.  We were left in the house together.  He came into my parents room.  I bolted.  He chased me around the house.  I managed to avoid him and make it back to my parents room and lock the door.  I finally told Mel on Christmas day.  He was furious, to say the least.  He stormed out of the house without saying anything, I did not say why either.  They did not confront him, that I know of, as he was leaving to visit other friends, and supposed to come back after the New Year for a week.  While he was away, they told him he had to stay somewhere else.  I don't remember anything else being done about it.  It was never talked about again.

But the story does not end there.  Because didn't I say that my first vivid memory was at 8 1/2?  That's because I have not touch on the person who hurt me the most.  My step-father, Mel.  The person I called daddy for so many years, the person who I trusted and was supposed to be safe with.  For a long time, too long, he was the only dad I knew.  He no longer has that title for me, no longer do I consider him my dad, to me he is Mel, my mother's second husband. That in itself hurts in a way.  For so long, he was my dad, the person I ran to with my problems, had tickle fights with, and played computer games and so much more. My first real memory, that I know happened (and not in a fog dream like way) was at 8 1/2 in a U-haul truck.  My mom was driving the car behind us, and I was in the truck with him.  He forced me to perform oral sex.  I remember vividly tell him, "No daddy, not again."  Doesn't seem like a first time to me. He did many things to me over the years.  He introduced me to full penetration gradually.  He made games out of it.  Strip poker, card games with punishments/rewards.  Punishments we spankings with a brush, or sitting on a brush or ice cube or the like.  Rewards were back rubs, kisses, oral sex (for him).

Much of this happened when we were home alone, sometimes my mom was home, in her bedroom.  All of the incidents happened in the living room.  Brazen of him I know.  

I learned about abuse, but I never put two and two together to make four.  I always ended up with three.  I knew other people would see what was happening as abuse, but I didn't think it was.  When I learned about abuse, the child always hated what was happening, was afraid and timid all of the time, and most of all hated the abuser.  This wasn't the case with me.  I loved him.  I found the attention and sex enjoyable, most of the time.  I sometimes initiated the activity.  To me that wasn't abuse.  How could it be abuse if my body liked it?  How could it be abuse if I asked for it?  I didn't understand.  It took me a long time to come to terms with this.  A long time to accept and understand what happened.  It took me a long time to learn that this was a normal response.  My body was responding to the stimulus it was given, right or wrong.  I didn't know that this does happen, because no one ever told me.  

He started abusing me before I really knew what was happening and what he was doing.  He manipulated me.  That often happens, sexual abuse often comes hand in hand with emotional abuse.  

Mel was a manipulative, sneaky, conniving person.  He made things seem the way he wanted them to.  Over time, he managed to turn me against my mother.  Unfortunately, our relationship suffered for many years because of this.

It came to pass that my mom  divorced him, I went to live with him.  By this time I was 13.  I thought he loved me, not just as his daughter, I thought that was what I wanted.  Thirteen is a confusing time to begin with, add to that mental and sexual abuse, and I was really confused.  Many people thought I was his wife, I guess I liked that thought.  I loved the attention.  I didn't understand that it was abuse.  I knew about abuse, I had read about it, they had talks about it in school, I had even seen it on TV.  But that wasn't me.  I wasn't abused, he loved me. Or so I thought.  

I had 2 HRS investigators come see me when I was 13/14, and the police out once.  Not because I had called them.  I had told two friends about what was happening.  Not because I wanted help.  It was a sleepover for my 13th birthday.  We ended up talking about boys and sex.  They were curious about sex, but were afraid of it.  I ended up telling them about my relationship with Mel.  That sex could be wonderful, enjoyable, and it didn't hurt like they thought it would. I lost one friend because of it.  She stopped talking to me shortly after that.  Another friend, who I think was going through her own ordeal, told her parents, and that's where the reports stemmed from.  Although I did not find out until over a year after the first report. In the interviews I lied through my teeth for him.  I didn't want to go to a foster home, my grandparents were in England, I did not know where my Dad or his family was.  In fact I really did not know that much about them.  I was not encouraged to remember him.  I think that was mostly Mel's doing, so he could have complete control over me.  I thought I would be taken from my mom as well.  Besides, I loved him, didn't I?  Their reports showed that I was a normal well-adjusted child.  What ever that is supposed to mean.

He sexually abused me until I was 16.  There were only two incidents where he tried after that.  Out of jealousy, because I had gone out on a date.

He continued to emotionally abuse me until I moved out when I was 19.   Sometimes I don't know what I suffer more from.  The emotional abuse definitely has it deep scars too. 

The emotional abuse didn't stop until well after  I moved out.  Its amazing how once someone gets control of you, they can be thousands of miles away (he was in England, I in Florida) and still have a profound affect on you.  He would belittle me, tell me that no one else could love me like him, and make me generally feel worthless.  He often told me I could do nothing right if I made the littlest mistake.  Instead of having encouraging words when I needed them, he did the opposite, told me to give up, that yes it was worthless.  He said that he was using reverse psychology on me.  And yes while I didn't give in, it didn't bolster my self esteem either.  He made me doubt myself, and how I thought others felt about me.  He even managed to make me doubt how my Dad (biological) felt about me.

He tried to make it seem that he was the only person who could ever meet my needs.  For a long time I believed that.  I don't any longer. 

My healing is still on going.  Read more about my journey of healing.

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